And her dinners were admirable. You could be sure of Napoleon brandy, the cousin of a duke, and the latest story about the vulgarity of New York.
It was not to one of Lady Ouston’s very best dinners, with a confidential cabinet minister present, that Lockert persuaded her to invite the Dodsworths, but it was quite a good, upper-middle dinner, with Clos-Vougeot and the master of a Cambridge college.
Sam was quiet, extremely observant, not extremely jolly, as he surveyed that regiment of twenty people, all nibbling so delicately at their salmon and at other people’s reputations. No one seemed to have any vulgarly decided opinions, and everyone desired to know of him only two things: Was this his first visit to England? and How long would he stay? And they didn’t seem to care so very much about either.
He wondered how many times he himself had asked foreign visitors to the Revelation plant—Britishers, Swedes, Germans, Frenchmen—whether this was their first visit to America, and How long did they plan to stay?
“I’ll never say that again!” he vowed.
The dinner rather went on. Soup and a murmur about broadcasting and Bernard Shaw; salmon and a delicate murmur about Mussolini and influenza; roast mutton and an exchange of not very interested confidences about cat burglars. Sam was in a daze of gluttony and politeness when he realized that Lady Ouston was talking to him about America, and that everyone at the table was beginning to pay attention. He did not know that she was born an American, and he listened to her with almost no comfort:
“—and of course none of us would ever think of classing your darling wife and you with the terrible, terrible sort of American tourists that one sees—or hears, rather—at the Cecil or in trains—where do you suppose such Americans come from! In fact, I’m quite sure you could both be mistaken for English, if you merely lived here a few years. So it’s a quite impersonal question. But don’t you feel, as we do, that for all our admiration of American energy and mechanical ingenuity, it’s the most terrible country the world has ever seen? Such voices—like brass horns! Such rudeness! Such lack of reticence! And such material ideals! And the standardization—everyone thinking exactly alike about everything. I give you my word that you’ll be so glad you’ve deserted your ghastly country that after two years here, you’ll never want to go home. Don’t you already feel that a bit?”
Sam Dodsworth had never in his life boasted of being an American nor yet apologized for it. It was amazement which made him mutter, with what sounded like humility, “Why, never thought much about America, as a whole. Sort of taken it for granted—”
“You won’t long! What a land! Such terrible politicians—positively the lowest form of animal life—even worse than Irish Republicans! And don’t you rather feel ashamed of being an American when you think of America’s making us pay the war debt when, after all, it was all you did contribute?”
“I do not!” Sam was suddenly and thoroughly angry; suddenly free of whatever diffidence he had before this formal society. “I never was much of a flag-waver. I don’t suppose America is perfect, not by a long shot. I know we have plenty of fools and scoundrels, and I don’t mind roasting them. But if you’ll excuse me for differing with you—”
Lockert said pacifyingly, “You can’t expect Mr. Dodsworth to agree, Lady Ouston. Remember he’s—”
Sam snarled on, uncheckable: “—I suppose I have been sort of assuming that America is the greatest nation on earth. And maybe it is. Maybe because we have got so many faults. Shows we’re growing! Sorry if it’s bad manners not to be ashamed of being an American, but then I’ll just have to be bad mannered!”
Behind his brusqueness he was saying to himself, and timidly, “Look at the dirty looks I’m getting! I’ve ditched things for Fran. What hell I’ll get from her!”
But incredibly it was Fran herself who was attacking: “My dear Lady Ouston, out of a hundred and ten million Americans, there must be a few who have agreeable voices and who think of something besides dollars! Considering how many of us are a generation or less from England, we must have several nice people! And I wonder if every member of the British Parliament is a perfect little gentleman? I seem to have heard of rows—We probably have more self-criticism at home than any other nation—our own writers call us everything from Main Streeters to the Booboisie. But curiously enough we feel we must work out our own fate, unassisted by the generous foreigners!”
“I think Mrs. Dodsworth is quite right,” said Sir Francis. “We’re not at all pleased here in England when the French and Italians call us barbarians—as they jolly well do!”
Suavely he said it, and stoutly, but Sam knew that thenceforth Fran and he would be as popular in the house of Ouston as a pair of mad dogs.
Fran developed a tactful headache at a quarter after ten.
Sir Francis and Lady Ouston were very cordial at parting.
Sam and Fran were silent in the taxi till he sighed, “Sorry, honey. I was bad. Awfully sorry I lost my temper.”
“It doesn’t matter! I’m glad you did! The woman’s a fool! Oh, my dear—” Fran laughed hysterically. “I can see that the Oustons and us are going to be buddies! They’ll insist on our yachting round the world with them!”
“And scuttling the yacht!”
“Haven’t they a dear little daughter, so Brent can marry her?”
“Fran, I’m crazy about you!”
“Du! Old grizzly! I’m glad you are one! Sam, a terrible thought occurs to me. I’ll bet you anything that fool woman was born an American! Convert! Professional expatriate! She’s much too English to be English. Not that the
